Forty Five Wounds in the Ice

What had I done to deserve this, to be forced to witness my own autopsy three years after my death?

I drifted down, closer to the autopsy table, gazing at the tiny fetus.

This was the first time I had truly seen my child.

Back in Antarctica, the harsh environment and intense work had made me ignore the changes in my body. I only had a vague suspicion a week before the incident, but I never had the chance to tell anyone.

I didn't cry when Amber killed me.

I didn't cry when I watched Spencer personally dissect me.

But now, as a ghost, I wept, tears I couldn't feel streaming down my face.

He already had hands and feet.

If Amber hadn't killed me three years ago, he would be over two years old now.

He would be at our home in Palo Alto, hugging me and calling me "Mommy," begging Spencer to tell him stories about polar bears.

I would have given him the world.

But that fantasy died on this cold steel table.

"The vic's identity is still unknown. Send this for lab analysis, run a DNA comparison," Spencer said, putting down the scalpel and tossing his gloves into the medical waste bin.

A shame, Spencer.

If you had just looked a little more carefully, you would have seen the scar from Yosemite, from when I saved your life.

But you didn't see it. You missed me all over again.

The assistant took the sample for testing, glanced at the record sheet, and asked,

"Spencer, you haven't given an estimated time of death yet."

Spencer's hand, which was cleaning the instruments, paused. He didn't answer, instead asking his assistant,

"Ben, how long has it been since Willow Hayes defected?"

Ben was taken aback by the question, but then replied, "Three years. You forgot, Spencer? It was a huge scandal. You're the one who signed the report that stripped her of all her honors and research qualifications."

I listened to his words in a daze. Revocation, report.

Spencer knew. He knew that for a scientist like me, who had clawed her way to that position through scholarships and working herself to the bone, reputation was more important than life itself.

How could he?

Based solely on Amber's one-sided story, without any real investigation, he had single-handedly destroyed everything I had once been so proud of.

"What's wrong, Spencer? Did you think of something?"

Ben looked at Spencer, then glanced quizzically at the tragic corpse on the autopsy table. "You don't think... it's her, do you?"

"How could it be?"

"Spencer, don't overthink it. Willow Hayes took off with data worth hundreds of millions. Who knows what country she's living it up in right now."

A dry, humorless laugh escaped him. "It's nothing. Just a stray thought."

"Make a note. Time of death is approximately three years."

"I'm leaving now. Amber's waiting for me at home for dinner."